There goes the downpour
by Bleeding Rainbows
Summary: In between blood and pain, the despair and the fear of loss that haunts every second inside a war made them cross the one, thin and definitive line, enough to awake something incredibly powerful, devastatingly beautiful and completely irreversible. (WWI AU, Hilson)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Neither the characters nor the song is my propriety and I am having no profit with any of this work.

**Pairing: **Hilson (James Wilson/Gregory House)

**Universe: **Alternate Universe - World War I

**Complete summary: **

1914. Stallupönen Battle. A helpless German doctor and an Austrian lieutenant with a bullet hole through his leg, stranded alone inside the woods, under the yoke of the unmerciful Russian night. In between blood and pain, the despair and the fear of loss that haunts every second inside a war made them cross the one, thin and definitive line, enough to awake something incredibly powerful, devastatingly beautiful and completely irreversible.

**Notes, warnings and tags: ** Russian Front; The Central Powers; Vierbund; German Empire and the Austro-Hungarian Empire; Oriental Front; Stallupönen BattleS; ongfic; Set in 1914I; nspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation; Historical Roleplay

This is a RP-based fanfic, written with FirebirdSong, my beloved House ( TheShippingSong), along more than nine hundred tweets, twenty days and thousands of feels.

- Nor English or German is our native language. Corrections are very welcome, but be aware of it from the start.

- We had taken away some Historical accuracy on purpose, but it's not the idea, so the fic will be set inside the situations and themes tagged.  
- The song that inspired the last chapter, such as the name of this fanfic, is Vienna - The Fray.

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**There goes the downpour**

The screams were still echoing inside Wilson's head, as if they were happening right in that moment. But they were, in the end - everywhere, always too close, there were screaming, rushes of blood inking the snow and smell of sulfur defiling every puffing breath, penetrating each pore of soldiers' cold skins. He was running on the snow, stomping the white devil, momentarily deaf from the last explosion. Not only his ears were buzzing a sharp, piercing sound, but also they ran from the bullets so desperately that now they were too far to know if there was anyone left alive of their group. All he could hear was House; and that sound was once by his side, but each step they took, they were both getting more and more apart.

At one point, Wilson stops, looking back. "House!" he screams, while panting severely. "_Leutnant_ House!". The lieutenant is limping and the trace of his steps through the path in the woods is followed by several red spots.

The sound of the bullet hitting House's right leg and colliding against flesh and bone came long before the pain. The danger wasn't close anymore, but it seemed they would never be far enough from that hell. His leg began to ache, the wind blowing cold against the wound - soon it would be more than he could bear.

Wilson was several steps ahead from him, calling his name. House leaned on a tree, panting out of pain and exhaustion. "Go! Run! I was shot. I can't go on."

The air inside Wilson's lungs was parching against the Russian wind, and his sight was taken thoroughly by the image of the lieutenant bleeding, breathless, giving in in his behalf. His boots embed in the snow when he stepped to change the direction of his fast steps; he'd pretend firmly not to have heard the order coming from his superior. He was a doctor, it was his job and his duty - but even if it weren't, he wouldn't be able to run away in such situation.

When he got to the tree House was leaning on, his voice became even more mandatory. "Sit down and let me check it!" They needed to find a safer place than that path to treat it, but leaving House bleed more could be the death of him.

"No, I told you to run. It's an order." groans involuntarily and lets himself fall on the ground.

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to face disciplinary sanction later, sir.", he kneels on the snowy ground by the other's side, taking his backpack off. "By now, I'm not going anywhere." He sentences, readily finding the aid kit.

"Don't be an idiot, save yourself." House's face is controlled, not showing pain or fear. The worst thing still was the cold; his hands were numb already. Wilson's hands rip the fabric of House's uniform, groping around among the hot outpouring blood to try to find the wound, and he tries once more to convince the doctor. "I'm bleeding too much, I can't be saved. The enemies will be here in a moment, run while you can. I've got nothing to lose."

"Our next squad is coming already. You are not going to die", Wilson looks directly at House's eyes, even though he was doubting of every word himself could deliver in that distressed moment. "I'm not letting you", he proceeds to stanch the bleeding, aware of how painful it would be.

"_Oh, scheiße_!" House swears and shuts his eyes, clenching his teeth "It's still here. The bullet. I can feel it."

Despite Wilson's words, he didn't have much faith in his own surviving. He knew the other was a great doctor, but it was always better to be prepared for the worse. And House certainly preferred to pass out due to bleeding in the snow than agonizing for days due to infection.

The doctor breathes in, between clenched teeth. "I know it's there.", swallows hard while tying the bandage up. "I can't take it off now." It seemed too close to the femoral artery, and the fact that the wound wasn't gushing blood abundantly could indicate that the bullet was blocking the hemorrhage. "Hold my backpack. I'll carry you and we find a place for us to wait until the next squad comes."

"Wilson, just go..." But Wilson's eyes are decided, so House just sighs and grabs the backpack. After all, he wasn't dead yet.

"Come on." He holds House's arm and turns. His head was still buzzing and that amount of tension could make him move tones. The reason he always needed to prioritize was melting, and the coldness he needed to have, in a terrible irony, was being wiped by the icy Russian wind. When he pulls House's arm completely upon his shoulder, to carry him on his back, the lieutenant weighed nothing and the world at the same time. The doctor's legs forced him to stand and, as he walks as fast as he can, his eyes scrutinize everywhere seeking a safer place.

House lets himself be carried like a child, as if he needed to feel any more vulnerable than he already was. He buries his face on Wilson's neck and closes his eyes, his mind feeling dizzy, his thoughts blurred. There were only the cold and the pain, and the walk seemed to take forever. 'It could be a lot worse', he thinks, as his mind slips into unconsciousness slowly.

As the warm breath by his ear gets softer and longer, instead of the painful short respiration, Wilson notices what is going on. It was huge how that sound was louder than any bomb in the distance, and echoed through the buzz inside his head.

"Hey! House, House, hey." His mind needed to think about some easy questions not to let him to be unconscious, but it would be of no help if he didn't lay the lieutenant down somewhere soon. Even formulating easy questions was hard; every reason was escaping, leaking out of his brain, and he was dangerously near of being really afraid "Do you have any can of food with you? What do you have?"

House hears only the last part of the question and answers drowsily. "Cigarettes, in my pocket. Maybe some biscuits... in the other pocket."

"Sehr gut, sehr gut." The doctor pants, holding House's arm tighter, by the wrists. His fingers tried to take the other's pulse, but his own heart throbbing against his throat was getting in the way.

His eyes find a place beside some rocks, where lots of pines and their long trunks encased a tiny glade. When Wilson gets there, he needs to continue trying to keep help House from fainting, if he could. "How much ammo do you have left?" The seconds of silence were already unbearable. "Answer me, House!", he clenches his jaw.

He stoops slowly, placing the most carefully he can his lieutenant's body on the soil. The cold ground beneath him made House open his eyes for a moment, and Wilson was staring at him, anxiously. "None..." he clears his throat "None left." It was annoying to feel so fragile. He rubs his eyes and forces himself to be conscious. "Mein Gott. How... Inconvenient."

"We won't need it now." he opens his backpack again. The best thing about it was that everything the squad had in order to do first aids was there; the worst thing was, he wasn't well armored. "We won't need it now.", he repeats, whispering, more to ensure himself than House, as he takes off the sleeping bag, for the injured to lie down, and the aid kit to continue trying to heal the wound as much as possible. Therefore, he places the backpack in the ground again to lean House's leg sligthly lifted. "Try to stay still, right?"

"Your optimism cheers me up, Wilson. Or at least distracts me. I don't think there's much optimism left in me, if there were some before." Sighs, and observes Wilson, looking concentrated. The pain on his leg was still there, but he was a bit more used to it. He just had to remain still.

The chuckle Wilson gave came out as a brief choke. Nothing could be funny when he had House's blood warming his hands. "It's not about being optimistic, it's about fighting. You're a soldier, aren't you?" his voice was angrier than he meant. "This is just a goddamn leg, House! They didn't explode your guts, don't just give up like this!"

House frowns, offended.

"This is not about my leg, Wilson. It's just the feeling that things will only get worse with this war. I'll fight until I'm needed.", he covers his face with his arm "I'm just tired. Ignore me." He decides to stop talking, sounding coward to his own ears.

"I'm sorry, sir." he feels the weight of his own words towards his superior, and remembers that this sort of passionate speech wasn't suitable. But it was unavoidable somehow; He'd be lost without his lieutenant. More than that - he'd be lost without Gregory House. "I know things seems terrible now, but... just don't let it go, right, Greg?"

"Never mind, Jimmy." House stares into his friend's eyes, seeming apologetic. "You're right. I'm complaining like an old maid.", holds back a groan, cursing mentally the one who shot him. "And you don't need to call me 'sir', there's just the two of us here."

Wilson smirks, finally able to breathe a little better.

"Out here, you're still my superior. No matter how many times you beat me in cards back in the camp and I called you ugly names, sir." his own sarcasm makes him complete the smirk into a smile.

The ghost of a smirk appears in House's lips and he feels his soul lighten a bit. "It's not my fault if you're such a terrible player." Looks up to the pine branches. "We'll need to light a bonfire in case anyone appears, the night will be cold.

Wilson readily gets up. "I'll try to find some dry ones."

'I don't think lighting a fire on enemy ground is safe, but we'll freeze otherwise' he thinks, and his eyes let the worry show itself perfectly for a moment.

"I just hope it works." House notices the worry on Wilson's look, and feels sorry for being such an inconvenient delay. They were still in great danger, and his coat felt just like a thin layer of silk over his skin, causing him shivers. "Don't worry, I don't think they'll find us here. And maybe we can find a better place to hide after." his tone is controlled, as if he were casually talking about the weather in a regular day.

Wilson knew he couldn't get too far; he'd get lost easily among that pine trees so alike each other. Thus, House was back there, alone with a poorly stanched bleeding. He walked towards the silence, and who'd say he'd even feel more secure within the sound of explosions - at least in the trenches he knew what to expect. Who'd say hell would freeze instead of burn? Beneath the dead quietude and cursed by the early Russian night darkening, the doctor picked some wood along the way, keeping up with the avid movements, to keep himself warm when he still had energy to do so, and not to waste time while still there was light in that day.

He was having a hard time in thinking; he couldn't afford to be stupid, but if he thought it all well enough, he would start panicking. His breath was loud, fogging, and, yet with not finding the best branches, but sure that the ones he had with him needed to do, he came back.

House is with his hands on his coat's pockets, to warm them up. He thinks about food and immediately regrets it. If he hadn't been so dumb and brought his backpack with the supplies with him, they could at least eat something with more taste than those horrid biscuits. It was like eating paper. 'If only we had some rum.', he thinks sadly. "Well, Wilson, my lad, let's hope help will come soon." He gives the doctor a small smile, as if mocking of the situation.

"That's what we can do." The doctor shrugs, proceeding to lit the fire. As he takes the gloves off to pick the matches, they seem to sting immediately, from the cold. Those improbably steady hands, still sort of stained in red.

When the flames come up and the warm shine glimmers inside his friend's eyes, Wilson finally lets himself sigh and blink slowly. Before loosening his body, sitting by House's side on the sleeping bag and resting his back on the rocks they had around, he picks one more thing in his belongings.

"Here." Hands a flask to House. "Disinfecting, cleaning, helping a hypothermia case, even slightly anesthetizing; a canteen of drinkable alcohol is too useful for a doctor not to take it with him in war." He smirks.

"I like the way you think." He grins and opens the flask, drinking a great swallow of the liquor, letting the familiar burn on his throat and the tingling on his tongue distract him from the cold and pain. House gives back the canteen to Wilson. "Go ahead, doctor, take some medicine too. God knows we all need it."

Wilson drinks too, looking right at the fire pit. He remains quiet for a long while, listening to House's short breaths in pain by his side, and watching how fast the daylight was fading. As if he couldn't stay still for long, he gets up once more to pitch their tent.

"You know what I want to do as soon as I get back?" his eyes do not seem as hopeful as his words, but that would be misguided by the flickering reflexion of the fire. "Eat pancakes. Since Amber died, I've been alone, and a man learns how to cook in these cases. And you should see the macadamia pancakes I can make.", chuckles to himself.

"I'd love to." House smiles a bit "I can't even remember the last time I ate pancakes. I can't cook anything by myself." the memory of pancakes and homemade food reminded him of his own empty stomach. House grabs some biscuits on his pockets and starts eating one, more for having something to chew than anything else. He offers them to Wilson, extending his arm in the doctor's direction. "So you don't think about marrying again, Jimmy?"

"I don't feel like searching anymore." finishes tying a small rope and holds the biscuits. "It's not like I'm avoiding it, you know. I just don't try. Guess I'm fine with my situation." eats, chewing slowly. "I'm just not the soldier lucky enough to have someone to come back to. Like you, who have such a beautiful wife."

"I don't know if she'll be waiting for me if I get home." House says carelessly, as if he doesn't care about it. But his severe face is painted with a subtle shade of sadness that was almost impossible to detect. He had left Lisa right after a fight. Her angry words were still in his mind. "I guess I've disappointed her too much already" he shrugs and lights a cigarette.

"I'm sorry for this. Sometimes things... just go their own way. It's not anyone's only fault in the end." Wilson tests the strenght of the tent a little too many times, just for not looking at House directly in that moment. "I just think it'd be her loss. You're a great man."

House smiles lightly. "And you are a terrible liar, Wilson. You don't need to give me praises. I know the general opinion about me, and it doesn't bother me."

"I'm not lying!" Wilson chuckles "I don't think like them. Why else would I spend that much time with you in the camping?" looks at House "You think I'm just an ass-kisser!"

House laughs genuinely. "These are your words, I haven't said anything. No, I just think you're just trying to cheer me up."

"If it would be of any help, I could go on the whole night." Wilson shrugs and smiles comfortingly. "But I know it wouldn't be much help." sits again by House's side "Good thing you're not bleeding that much. I don't think it's a main artery."

House then sighs profoundly.

"What are my chances, Wilson?" he finally says. "Can I hope to recover from this?"

"I'm not taking you for an idiot, House. Concluding your femoral isn't ruptured, I'd say this sort of wound is actually a great chance for one to furlough permanently and go home. But, although I'm pretty sure about the gravity of your injury, I can't precise it. And we..." sighs "we are in the middle of this devilish iced land." He looks right at House. "Just be strong. I'm begging you. We can make it."

"Do I have any better option?" he takes one last drag of his cigarette and throws it away. "I believe in your abilities. But in case things go wrong... Don't blame yourself, right?"

House sometimes thought Wilson was too kind and gentle for the war, but he knew by now the doctor was resilient and brave. After all they've seem, one could become cold and indifferent to death, but Wilson still had that spark of faith in providence and in the human race. He was a real great man among all the tragedy and desperation, and his heart seemed intact.

"Don't." Wilson answers too quickly, and one of his bitterest laughter ever comes out scratching out his throat. Just no, just... don't. Not House.

'Haven't I lost enough already? Don't too many people already die under my sight every day?', he thinks and clenches his teeth. House was always there; he was invincible. So don't bring it up. Don't talk about it. Just don't.

"I can't blame myself, right? We're in war, people die." The doctor eventually sighs, staring at the fire. "Everybody dies."

"Yes." He stares into Wilson's eyes with a weird expression. He didn't want to worry the doctor even more, but it was important. He needed to be sure his will would be respected. He knew he could trust Wilson to take care of his interests. "I need you to promise me I'll die with my leg. That nobody will cut it out. Please."

"You can't ask me to let you die. I'll do whatever it takes for it not to be needed." He looks back at him and swallows hard "But you can't ask me to let you die." He repeats.

Wilson looked so perturbed that House felt surprised; he never thought the doctor cared that much about him. But as soon as it crossed his mind, he dismisses it. 'He's a doctor, he's a good man, it's only natural.', he thinks, but deeply wishing he was wrong. James Wilson was a great friend, and there were very few people he could define that way – if there was actually anyone else. Despite his fear of suffering beyond his ability to hold on, he decides to put the subject aside for now.

After a tense moment of silence, he speaks, as if he hadn't said anything before. "Can you help me entering the tent? The wind is becoming really annoying."

"Sure. You indeed should get some rest." Wilson kneels, holding the other's torso. "I'll be on the watch."

"Thanks. Wake me up in the middle of night so you can get some rest too. That is, if I get to sleep.", he sighs and puts his arm on Wilson's shoulders.

"I will, don't worry." he confirms, too reassuring, nearly dragging House; the most carefully he could, but the moaning in pain couldn't be avoided. As soon as they reach the tent, he opens its entrance and helps the lieutenant to lie down. Kneeling by his side, crouching in that narrow compartment, Wilson checks his pulse once more, taking the gloves off and placing the fingers precisely by his throat. Checking his temperature seemed idiotic before those cyanotic skins and purplish lips of theirs. "If you need anything, please, call. Or If you feel anything different." he says while checking House's bandages "Too much sickness, for example."

"I will." Wilson's fingers felt almost warm against his cold skin "And if it gets too cold outside, don't hesitate to enter."

"Right." Unconsciously, he holds House's hand briefly, clutching for a moment as a message for him to hold on - and that he had someone to hold on to. It was something he used to do as a medical doctor; but, there, he let it go quicker than the usual. Then, he just nodded again and left the tent.

The doctor's hand brought him some comfort, even if it was just psychological. House catches himself wishing Wilson had stayed there with him, talking and comforting. The silence and the poor light coming from outside makes the pain more noticeable, as if intensified. There's no wind, but the cold is constant. For a while, House tries to keep his eyes closed. He uses all the tricks he knew to distract himself: remembering piano sheets, the Fibonacci's series, everything that used to work. But nothing can distract him from physical pain. Some time later, he realizes he's been groaning. It seemed he had been like that for his entire life, and another moment of misery would be too much to bear. He's lost track of time and his eyes are wide opened. Before, when he and Wilson were looking for a safe place in the woods, his head was nearly unconscious. Now, he can feel every inch of his leg exploding in pain, and he couldn't stand it anymore. When he tries to call Wilson to ask for some painkiller or even to end his misery, his voice is barely audible, the air leaving his lungs too fast for him to speak. He tries to speak again, but all that comes from his mouth is a loud groan, that sounds amplified in the immense silence of the woods.

Wilson's brain have been whirling inside his skull along those hours. His limbs were trembling involuntarily and even the revolver in his hand was shaking. He was sinking into exhaustion and the wind kept on whipping his benumb skin, howling like snow wolves - would they be in that much bad luck that they'd actually find a pack of them?  
And the moans. Wilson checked on House some times, just a glimpse by the entry of the tent, not to let the cold wind in. But what else was there to see? He knew what was going on. And, in each one of those excruciated sounds, louder every time, Wilson shuts his eyes. House's voice was bleeding out the doctor's chest, and the last ones were like exit wounds. House's pain pierced through the night and through his ears, and he lets go of the revolver, burying his face in his hands. In the next one, he falls to hs knees and opens the tent

"House." He enters, trying to find some room inside that space. Despite the cold, the lieutenant was sweating, and it was obvious. House didn't need him; House needed to be anesthetized. Wilson knew exactly what House would ask, and how there was hardly anything to say; but he came in and held his hand again.

Breathing irregularly, his eyes opening and closing out of pain, House felt Wilson's hand in his. He tries to focus on the doctor's face, barely visible. "Your hand... It's... Cold..." his whole body spasms with another powerful wave of pain, and he clenches his teeth. "Wilson... Please... Anything..." If the doctor crashed his skull with a rock it would be better than that torture. His eyes were desperate, and he pressed Wilson's hand more and more tightly.

"Right, wait a second, ok?" he gets out of the tent again.

Wilson was used to it. Having someone begging for the pain to end was basically his everyday. People holding their guts in their hands, legless or armless soldiers; there wouldn't be any morphine enough in the world to supply the demand. But they were in the middle of a Russian forest, and soon House wouldn't be able to bear it. He had chances and he had been holding on greatly all that time. Yet still haunted about how scarce their resources were, Wilson couldn't just wait for House to collapse in pain, or that he screams his lungs out. So, he prepares a shot of morphine with what he had in his backpack, coming back to inside the tent with a low dose inside a syringe. "Stay still. This should help."

House didn't even feel the needle. But as soon as the morphine reached his bloodstream, he felt the pain diminishing, until it was bearable again. His breathing rate slowed down, and he closed his eyes in pure relief. The pain was still there, but it was nothing near the insanity of before. His fists relaxed, and when he opened his eyes, he gave Wilson a small grateful smile, even though it could pass unnoticed in the poor light inside the tent. His throat is dry, and he coughs before speaking. "Thank you."

When Wilson thought he saw a ghost of a smile in House's face, he could breathe properly again; it was yet a puffing breath exploding inside and outside his lungs. The relief he felt came to him as a weakness sign; as he had stuck that needle in his own skin to bring analgesia to his own pain. "You feel better, then." he lets his trembling legs falter and he loosens his body, laying beside House, - he tells himself - just to rest for a moment.

"Immensely better." he felt Wilson beside him and a different type of shiver ran up his spine, a good one. His head and his limbs were lighter. "You were freezing outside, weren't you? Stay here and get some rest." he reaches for Wilson's hand to reassure him that he was feeling better, and maybe to express his gratitude.

Right afterwards, House feels nearly angry with himself for trying to justify his acts that way; if it weren't for the morphine, he certainly would. 'Do I really need an excuse to hold a friend's hand?' And that thought made him hold it a bit tighter, not really thinking about what it meant. If it felt good, who cared?

"It is really, really cold out there. The wind..." he is not able to finish the sentence. First, because that amount of obviousness had no need to be pronounced; but also because things seemed to fog when House held his hand. Wilson just stared at the dark roof of the tent. "I sort of... start to feel my fingers again." He chuckles. "It is better inside here."

"You should have come inside to warm yourself up." House rubs his thumb on Wilson's hand to pass some heat, but it feels more like a caress, because his fingers moved slowly. "It's not as if being on watch would change anything. If the enemy finds us here, we wouldn't be able to run away. But let's hope the cold and the darkness protect us here. On the meantime, we need to keep ourselves alive."

"Ja, ja. You're right. That's all we can do now." The doctor sighs, his voice vibrating hoarse. He was already warming his own body, House's pain seemed bearable, and he also seemed to have a good, bitter point, about how they were just as good as one could ever be in such a horrid situation. All that was a settled point inside his reason - then why doesn't his heart calm down at least a little bit?

The heat against his body was something so comfy he could forget for a few seconds of the war and the blood, even though his fast pulse was exploding against his throat and pounding like grenades in his ears. Remaining silent, he let his fingers loose, not to pretend he had fallen asleep, but to actually try to. All he gets, however, combining both the soft warmness and his restless heart, is a foggy dazed sensation in between them, as if a haze had taken over his eyes. The need to stop the oscillation of feelings by any means makes him move; slowly, as if asleep, - and he could be as well - he grunts and turns in House's direction. Putting his face beside the other's shoulder, close enough for his nose and forehead to touch the lieutenant's uniform and his own arm to place itself upon the other's, his fingers softly by House's clavicle.

House was half-asleep when he felt that hand on him. A subtle lazy warmness fills his stomach, and he can't hold back a drowsy smile. The feelings were confusing, just like everything else in his state. He finds himself wanting Wilson closer, and he doesn't think too much about it before speaking.

"Hey, Jimmy. If you come a bit closer, we'll keep ourselves warm more efficiently." his voice is low, dozy, barely a whisper. Some seconds later he realizes it sounded awkward, and tries to fix it. "I mean, two bodies in contact exchange heat. Just basic physics." 'Just sleep and stop talking, House.', he orders himself.

"Fine." Wilson whispers back and closes his fist, swallowing hard. Physics. House had taken morphine, and seemed to be babbling. But he, Wilson, what was his excuse? What was his excuse for wanting so much that embrace? 'The cold', he'd ensure himself, before raising his own body just a bit and pulling House's arm to the side. "If it gets... uncomfortable somehow, just tell me." He'd expect to be pulled away, but, damn, it was cold, right? It is so damn cold in that place, he'd say to himself thousands of times as he hugs House's chest, nearly snuggling against the other, ignoring that the heat coming from inside himself in that whole situation was nearly enough to warm him up by itself now.

House lets out a breath, relieved. He didn't even know why, but it wasn't the time to ask why. It was the moment to enjoy the presence of a warm body close to his own, to feel comfortable in another person's embrace. The doctor had the ability to make him feel safe and sound, despite the pain, despite the fear. He remembers a particularly difficult night, after the loss of dozens of soldiers. Wilson looked devastated after seeing all those boys dying in front of his eyes. They sit together, side by side, smoking silently, and his heart felt lighter. But that couldn't be compared to the feeling that filled him when the doctor put his arm around his chest. It could be the morphine, it could be the fragility of his mind and heart after the horrors of the war - but in that quiet moment, he could swear he was happy, as he hadn't been for a long time. "Much better." He mumbles, mindlessly.

Wilson could hear House's heart beating fast, and he felt small and great at the same time. Small, because he felt vain before something so fragile and so precious inside his arms - somehow, life itself.

The lieutenant Gregory House was someone powerful enough to take ahold of all his memories from the camp. If Wilson tried to remember those days, House was everywhere; more than rigid, he was sarcastically bossy and rude. People used to make his life even more difficult, and he, as a superior most of the time, used to strike back even harder. His ability of observation was as stunning as his disability with relationships; but it was among this that their improbable relationship showed the most shinning parts of the personality of each one, and that it showed sides of the commander that no one have dared to find.

Silent side by side most of the times, trying to make their time work out in others, laughing at stupid things as if the world wasn't on fire in fewer ones; after all, they were always together.

"Ja. Much, much better." Wilson answers. When everything is taken away from you, you start to give an enormous value to small things. A good drink. A hot meal with actual meat. Someone to hold on to. There, he knew he had something bigger than he could ever measure, and it was slowly bleeding into the Russian soil. Wilson really didn't notice when he started holding House tighter - but it might have been by the time he felt his heart ache one more time.

The commander stayed still, not knowing what to do. It was a strange, bittersweet sensation. There was a tenderness in Wilson's touch that felt new and vitalizing. Something he didn't even know he craved for. It was so full of kindness and maybe even affection that his heart and throat ached, as if he was about to cry. Lisa had been tender in the first months of their marriage, but she never made him feel like that. Despite his deep affection for her, there was always something missing. She wanted him to change, to give up on his vices, to be the husband she always dreamed of. And he tried - but it wasn't motivating enough. He couldn't just change without a really good reason. Unhappily, Lisa has never been a good reason.

Wilson was his dearest friend, if not the only one. He was so gentle one could take him for a fool easily. But House knew better. There is a kind of strength that is born from suffering; Wilson's always been strong. Suffering, seeing the things he saw hadn't turned his heart dark or skeptical; it had blossomed in all its virtue and splendor. House was fascinated by Wilson, who inspired him to see the world and the people less bitterly. Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind, and he became aware of every bit of his body in contact with the doctor's. 'Could it be that...?' He wished for more - but what? His trembling hand slowly moves to his own chest, and covers the doctor's hand. It felt like the right thing to do. And he wouldn't ask himself why when he could as well never see another day coming.

Every time House corresponded that well to each of his movements, Wilson felt himself plunging deeper into the surreal. The weariness inside him was so intense he could be just delirious, taken over by the blur in his eyes, but the sensation was getting so amazing it would be raging and outrageous. He wanted it - he wasn't even sure of what 'it' meant, but he wanted it viscerally, as much as he was afraid to lose it. As something that would fade out forever if he didn't seize; and it was hurtful how that could be the clearest truth. What was 'it'? Would he even be able to deal with what he'd find out? Could he ever let himself dive inside the mist and let every sentiment clutch around his heart? When the trembling hand covered his, he was sure he could. He would. "House, I..." he whispered voiceless, opening his eyes widely in the next second, frightened. He never meant to say a thing, but his voice came out, as another entity, and he didn't know what to do about it.

His heart jumps in his chest as Wilson soft whisper came into his ears. 'It's over. He's going to say I'm invading his personal space and move away from me.' the thought made his stomach sink. An image of the situation was forming into his foggy mind, and he was slowly realizing what could be the 'more' he wanted from the doctor. He immediately felt afraid. In the army, and specially during a war, there wasn't time for things like shyness or personal space. Great friendships were born between comrades-in-arms, friendships that could last a lifetime. But there was a line no man could cross, and that was – yes, that was – exactly what he was willing to do. It could only mean one thing: he was infatuated with James Wilson. It could be even more than an infatuation, as long as he knew. But that... That was unnatural. It just couldn't be. However, he still felt the weight of the other's hand under his own, and that was wonderful. He couldn't make himself think about it as 'wrong'. He didn't have the heart to stop it. "Yes?", he whispers, his voice sounding low and rough. "James?"

Wilson's breath hesitated and lost track, and he parted his mouth to answer something; it was useless. That entity apart of him who had something to say left him wordless and helpless, relying in nothing but the same sensations confusing and dizzying him from the start. It could be said he hasn't been with a woman for too much time, but that couldn't be it; it wasn't that far from sexual, but the feeling warming up his heart was much more than the physical sensibility of his skin. The sickness he should feel was wandering somewhere away, hand in hand with the guilt, walking among the pines and leaving no traces on the snow, ready to show up again later like silent wolves to tear him in shreds. He rose his face and looked at House, waiting for anything. It could be the howling wolves of reality and sense or just one look of House's telling him they were sick together and that his friend shared all his reveries. He was so torn and everything was so abstruse that reasonable things seemed ethereal; He'd feel good in scuppering inside hell if he was in House's arms. Nevertheless, bodily, he was shivering, his breath was heavy, his pulse was throbbing and he licked his own dry lips slowly.

Greg rises his hand slowly, as if James is a wild animal ready to bite him and not his friend. The movement seemed to take forever. Time was staying still. They weren't in the middle of the Russian woods, they weren't soldiers, they weren't even human beings. Just Gregory House and James Wilson, two creatures discovering each other. When his fingertips touched that face, the skin felt soft beneath his fingers, and he couldn't find anything to compare it to in his mind. The fingers moved slowly from the cheekbones to the masculine chin, experimenting the sensation. Wilson's eyes were glowing in the dark, reflecting some lost spark of light that came inside the tent. His leg was keeping him on the ground, and he couldn't move it without fear of feeling that immense pain again. His thumb moved upwards languidly, until it touched James' lower lip. Mesmerized, House watched as his thumb caressed that lip from left to right, delighted with the texture of it.

Each touch House performed left a trace of fire in his skin. Wilson stood still, more like paralyzed, trying to figure out again how to breathe and telling his heart not to turn into a landmine. His biggest fear and hope seemed to collapse together, even though they were the very same thing from the start: House could be maddening and hallucinating just like he was. And he could conclude something about it, but in that moment he was being ripped in pieces by the skimming of careful fingertips, as well as fixed, glued into some new sense. When his lips tingled from the immensely soft touch, he closed his parted mouth, purely reacting. As if he could have broken the most beautiful spell, Wilson swallows hard and leans on House's chest, raising his body to align their faces. Still too afraid to face the immensity of the sky inside House's eyes, he looks at everything else in the other's features, under the dim light.

House felt Wilson's warm breath on him, and his own lungs could have collapsed in that moment. Everything was so ethereal, but his heart was beating loudly, impolitely, uncontrollable, as if trying to destroy that atmosphere. The doctor's eyes were studying his face, observing, another bright moment in eternity. His fingertips ached for more touching, more skin to explore. He moves his hand to James' nape, feeling the sharpness of his apparently recent haircut. House was lying on the ground, with an useless wounded leg, with a strong man above him. With anybody else, he would be thinking of a plan to defend himself and run away as fast as he could. But it was James, and even though he felt helpless, he wouldn't complain, for it was something he desired greatly. His face inched a bit closer until their noses were touching, and House wasn't thinking about anything but the line they were about to cross.

The presence of House that near him possessed Wilson. The anticipation was subduing his perception, shattering the space they still kept between them, as well as everything else around. Every single drop of his blood carried the fear and the yearning inside that moment with the same intensity, pulling him back and pushing him against it all again. His hands found their way up the other's neck and held House's face, the desperation and the need converted into the firmest hesitation that's possible for one to have. His eyes ran through every line until they catastrophically met the blues irises. "Oh, God help me." his trembling voice whispered, nearly whining. He parted his lips, took another breath of shared hot air and the tip of his nose slid beside House's, until there was no distance between their mouths, pressed against each other.

House couldn't quite explain what he felt. Lips against lips. Male touch on male skin. Strong hands on his face. Short hair beneath his fingers. His whole body was a mess of morphine, numbness, warmness and something not far from arousal. His mind was sinking in an lake of doubt and delight. His heart was beating slowly and still too fast. He'd always bragged to be confident and sure of himself, but in that eternal moment he wasn't sure of anything. All his knowledge was useless. Reason couldn't be applied to that situation. 'Maybe it has nothing to do with reason', he thinks. 'Maybe all I knew about love and affection was wrong.' His lips part slightly to catch Wilson's upper lip between his own, clumsily. The kiss was so chaste and soft, almost hesitant. A merely touch of lips. Still it had the flavor of a new discovery, a promise of thousands of unknown pleasures yet to be found.

It was overwhelming how much Wilson could think and yet not a single thought be able to stay and make at least a bit of sense. Every scream of help that crossed his mind drained to his muscles. Every word in protest or apology lost itself inside his lungs, and every moan in suffocation or some sort of twisted, wicked pleasure withered even before it could be born. When Wilson opened more his already parted mouth, it wasn't to deepen the kiss. Their lips weren't quite pressed against each other anymore - they were skimming, in what could be teasing, but in essence was more like hesitating in the conflicting feelings. His opened mouth was the bodily yearning, and his scattered breath was the insecurity that couldn't leave his hurt chest.

It was beyond wrong, if he described. It was all with his severely wounded and drugged friend, a man, his lieutenant. Was he sacrificing the only thing he had to hold dear when the world was splitting and tumbling down, or was he finding the only thing truly theirs among all the deaths for someone else's cause, before it's too late? He should never go on, but he could never let go, so the anxiety and relief that he had already sunk too profoundly to try to come back made his hands slide to House's nape. He locks their lips together again, the sudden movement making the inside of his lip sting against his own teeth, and the bit of violence that took his movements in that moment wasn't his intention, and it wasn't even because of desire; it was all due to the lack of brakes his own fear was causing, as the result of his desperation.

House wanted that moment to last forever. He could as well die within that kiss, in Wilson's arms. He wasn't trying to understand anymore, it was useless. He'd only run in circles, chasing some explanation for all that nonsense longing piercing his heart. Running away wasn't an option; Gregory House didn't run away from anything. But he caught himself wanting to put off the unavoidable talk about all of that, to just savour the sensation of James Wilson surrounding him with his lips, his eyes, his hands, his body, his entire being. They were dreaming inside a bubble, and any sudden movement could destroy everything inside that dream. The problems, he'd deal with them as they come. His limbs felt heavy, his heart seemed to be broken for ages. James Wilson could be the thing he had missed since he realized for the first time how alone he was. House just wanted that bittersweet sensation to last forever. His fingertips traces random words on the doctor's neck, words that came into his mind. He could picture in his mind his fingers marking the soft skin with black ink. But his fingers were clumsy and the words didn't make any sense. It would be just a disturbing drawing of his twisted self.

Second by second, until time blurred and became impossible to count, the anxiety inside Wilson entered in such a deliciously beautiful vertigo that nothing could stop him; only then, he realized all he took as desperation was now nothing but pure craving. House was indeed corresponding. Maybe because of drugs or sickness, but he was - for everything holy and damned, he was. Even in so much pain, he was kissing Wilson back, and the vortex of euphoria that took the doctor over was subduing. He found himself smiling; how outrageous that could be? In that situation, for Christ's sake. But the vain attempt of his conscience was as useless as trying to evoke something saint. Despite on what he thought, he wasn't a man taking his comrade-in-arms' lips, letting his tongue slightly caress them in what could be so sinful, all that in a never merciful Russian forest; no. It was his heart turning young again. Not naive, but convincing itself it was just as whole as when it haven't ever lost a thing. He was reckless and intense, young and discovering love - yes, love. For so, uncontrollably, he would most definitely smile.

House lets out a soft moan, of both pain and desire. Wilson was driving him insane. But if it was so, why did he feel as if he was seeing light and truth for the first time? Why did he crave so much for losing his mind in that spiral of lust and need? When did it all begin? Maybe it's always been there. Maybe he was lost since the first time the doctor smiled at him. Maybe he was lost and insane since the womb and the only one who could ever save him from complete madness was Wilson. His mind was beginning to drift off, and he opens his eyes to be sure he wasn't hallucinating. But James was there, so close he couldn't even see him. That vision was enough to make him faint, and he closes his eyes, helpless, surrendering himself to the sensations, not thinking about anything else but lips, tongue, skin, teeth, warm breath and gentle hands on his face.

When you are in war, there isn't such thing as tomorrow. There is barely the next hour, and the world is exactly what one can have right in that moment and forever. And eventually, wasn't it all? The smell of sweat and blood, the numbness in their toes, the sour taste in their gullets, the ungainly movements, the body heat fighting the cold, their breath strangling; now was all and everything.

Then, one moment, Wilson stopped moving, and he could have stopped even breathing. With perfectly dovetailed lips, they both freeze as the snowflakes outside that tent, if there was anything outside whatsoever. In that interim, they stood still; it was a picture to be painted whole in that seconds, and hung in a wall - a premium wall in a pinachoteca containing all the select whole-hearted feelings in the world that had found their perfect fit.

Their lips separated and that felt like the most unwieldy movement so far. Unable to break it completely, the doctor leaned his forehead on House's, fingers on his cheeks again, scraping against the preannounce of a beard. No matter how stifling it could be; it was only by respiring the heavy, unsavory air in between their faces that his heart was able to breath.

They were thinking the same thing. House could tell just by the way Wilson looked at him seconds before falling on his forehead, as if the weight of that moment was too much for him. 'And what now?'. House wanted more, more kisses, more affection, more love. More of that addicting sensation on his chest, taking over his heart. He could feel his mind clearing as the pain on his leg slowly increased. A sick worry began to take over him. About the future. About that never-ending war. About Wilson. About himself. The air left his lungs in a sigh, both of happiness and melancholy. In a couple of hours, his life became a mess. As his fingers felt the veins beneath Wilson's skin, he could almost feel sorry for the doctor, for taking him along into that madness. But his heart was so light with affection that he could just pretend there wasn't anything to worry about. Things would only get more and more difficult. But with James by his side, he could dare to fight for it. He was unbreakable and impossible to be defeated. House kisses the corner of Wilson's mouth softly one more time, still amazed by how it felt good.

As he felt the gentle kiss, he just kisses back, one more time, just as he received. He had spent hours hearing endless screams in the front, days under rain and buried in mud. So, he could spend a lifetime like that, just like that. He could as well kiss House to numbness, until his lips hurt and his jaw ache, and it would still be better than opening his eyes again. His guards were so low that he was the youth itself; he was a red target, open-armed, for anything at all, good or bad - and in the battlefield, it is doomed to be bad. 'Please, don't say a word', he'd think, but he didn't want to verbalize it, not even in his mind, not even to tell House not to. But even when he didn't want to, he retreated his head slowly and opened his eyes, finding the same face he'd looked at before it all, the sight just as equal as completely different. His eyes could glister and shine as the fire pit was alighting inside them. Maybe he'd want something to be said, but he was just too dazed to have something real to sting him. He just caressed the face beneath, following the lines with his fingertips and feeling and the texture against his knuckles, looking at all them again and not letting his own eyes find House's again and accidentally shoot them with any of the questions that were starting to open fire inside him.

House felt Wilson was touching his face almost ceremonially, as if he had his hands on something sacred and precious. But it was just him, Gregory House, just another miserable human in that land of suffering and terror. Although it felt awkward to have that kind of attention drawn to him, so reverential, he understood it somehow, for the same instinct was controlling his body. In the battlefield, men were used to lose everything there was to lose - body, mind, sanity, life. But he had gained something far beyond his deserving. He knew what he wanted to say, but could he? "James.", he whispers softly and tenderly.

The doctor was so concentrated that the call sounded more like it was happening inside his own chest. It was wide, though hoarse, and he felt it somehow reverberating inside him; and it was really because of how close they were, with his hands so near his throat. He took a while to feel ready to answer, but it was more like he never actually learned how to speak. That concept of age, again. Once more, so recklessly helpless as a children, yet with the heaviness of the experience filling him like life to an old man. "Ja, Greg?" he whispered back, looking down.

"I...", the lieutenant sighs "What are we going to do?" They couldn't put off that talking forever. They were both grown men, and they should be able to deal with the situation. Any moment could be too late. They needed a plan, and for better or for worse, happening again or not, what was done couldn't be undone. The line had been crossed. Now, either they stood still, ready for the consequences, or they stepped back and pretend it never happened. House had already made his decision, but he weren't alone in that. He could only hope for the best.

House's words weighed tons in Wilson's shoulders, and it felt like a sting in his chest. "I don't know. It was..." he pressed his lips and sighed profoundly "a mistake." It was. For all that they could take from it, it was millions of times wrong; an abomination. "In this situation you are and I... did this. But I don't regret, and I don't take back anything. I can't, you know. So I guess I'd do whatever you want me to about it, and face the consequences."

That word, 'mistake', made him uncomfortable. It was wrong, unnatural, but not a mistake. It was the right thing to do, even if it wasn't right. "I don't think it was a mistake. It had to happen, I guess. It was necessary. And if it was... Well, everything we do in the battlefield is a mistake, everything is wrong. If it was a mistake, it was less wrong... Gott, I'm not making much sense, I know." He rubs his eyes with his fingers, to try to wake up his mind, to clear his thoughts. "What... How did it feel to you?"

There House was, seeming sleepy and confused. Wilson never meant to underestimate his lieutenant, - never meant to underestimate House - but it was unavoidable to think that he was vulnerable enough to be on the edge of unaware of the situation as a whole. Nevertheless, it was rather incredible for Wilson to hear House speaking like that. It was like his own heart was speaking, and he always thought that only the brains should be allowed to perform words until then.

"I guess we both will lose it if we start to morally judge this. It's like a battle, isn't it?" he chuckles, too nervously "Don't over-think, just make what you learned a tool, and follow what you feel. And what I feel now... God, House." he clenches his teeth and lets out the air in between them. He stutters before the first try. "It felt like... redemption?" he hesitates. "I-I can't put to words. I'll be dull and it may as well be offensive."

"Redemption... Interesting." his eyes stare at some lost point in the ceiling of the tent, as he reflects about it "I guess I can't choose a word to define what I felt. It was like the relief one feels when arrives home after a long time away. Or maybe after having done some terribly wrong and still be forgiven." Not for the first time, House found himself unable to speak clearly about feelings and sensations. He wasn't blind to them, their deep hues always on his thoughts delicately like a watercolor. But that was exactly the problem: how one describe a colour? How can someone who never saw 'blue' or 'red' know what it's like? House could only say his subjective impressions about it, and that led to misunderstandings all the time. He saw and understood his feelings perfectly, but talking about them was a whole new challenge. His mouth could only mumble some lesser words, trying to paint with opaque gouache what he saw in bright and vibrant oil. "I can't decide for both of us. I can only say I don't regret anything, and nothing would make me happier than this... whatever it is between us."

Wilson felt like he'd lost in the meaning of what he said, and hoped it could make more sense to House than it did to him. Deep down, it was really what he felt. And it wasn't him who was being redeemed, but his heart. Redeemed of the lies it always told, and seeming so deeply willing to surrender and to be wrecked that it really felt like some sacred sacrifice. And he was happy, too, but he couldn't be sure about the definition. Wasn't happiness supposed not to hurt?

"It is relieving to hear it, since it's so mutual." he smiles weakly "I don't know what I'd do if I have to lose you." he swallowed hard "I mean, for something I did and..." There. The words. The damned words and the reason why he didn't want them there. He'd end up saying something he didn't mean. Knowing it could be worse to try to fix it and define 'lose' when it has so many significations, he just closed his eyes and sighed.

House smiles faintly.

"Hey Jimmy, don't worry. I like you too much to just let you go." his fingers caress the doctor's cheek, following the jawline softly until ending up in the chin. "But you can say anything you want, don't be afraid. We're trying to understand all of this, aren't we? So we need to think clearly and decide what's the best for both of us." The pain on his leg had increased, but it was bearable, as if he had only bumped into something hard. "But first, I need to ask, how long is the effect of the morphine you gave me?"

"Not long. Four, five hours tops." He'd say three, but there was no need for so. He straightened his arms and rose his body; cold air already hit them where their bodies went apart. "I'd say the best thing for you now is sleeping, and perhaps you should take another shot. It should be enough for you to make it through the night."  
He observes Wilson's expression and how he had avoid being precise and looking into his eyes.

"The morphine we have is just enough for one more shot, isn't it?" It sounds more like a statement then a question. House didn't even wanted to think what would it be like if the reinforcements didn't arrive soon. "Do whatever you think it's best."

Wilson was divided, too. It was a tough decision to make, but one had to be done. "Maybe if you sleep soon, we don't have to. The one you took would last longer, and I could inject another when you wake up. I know this sort of stress makes it even harder for one to sleep, it's worth the try." he swallows hard "Maybe if..."

He lays again by House's side. His hand follow the line of his eyebrows and slid to the short cut of his hair. Each one of his movements seem really careful and calculated, but the look in his eyes is filled with intense affection, and the endearment of his act follows the fondling. "It usually helps. I'll be here until you sleep, and if you really can't, after a while, I'll get the morphine. You are exhausted, just let it sink in. I know it is difficult, but just close your eyes."

"I'll try." He exhales slowly, closing his eyes, welcoming that warmness inside his chest as a dear friend, letting it take over his senses. His hand searches for Wilson's until they're touching, and smiles. "Gute Nacht, mein Freund." He whispers quietly, letting his mind run free, not paying attention to anything. But in the end, there was only Wilson and the memory of their lips touching.

Wilson found himself smiling, and, when he finds it, he gives an even wider smile. How far from reality it seemed, how the perfection of a moment lied inside the wrongs of years. How fear led him to go on, and how he missed his lips in House's like it was something he always had, and never learned how to live without. He'd convince himself, though, that it wasn't the touch, but what it meant and how it felt, and that could be something to hold on forever. He would. His smile faded out slowly.

The civilian don't know how it feel to be at war. People don't know how much it is valuable to be filled and complete - with water, with food. And though people do frequently know what it means the lack of love, they don't face every second the fear of loss. Wilson let his fingers draw the lines of House's head once again, his features and his hair, the hematomas and the bruises, the dry sweat and the blood. And, even though he knew it could be walking blindfolded into insanity, he imagined what could have been if it were a morning in Berlin, in his bed, in a regular, civilian Tuesday or Wednesday - instead of there, when he couldn't remember which place they lied, which day of the week they were. As he was just imagining, he ignored anything that didn't fit; what would it be if they were just waiting for the weekend to have a dinner and to hear jazz, instead of waiting to see if they would make it through the night, every night? Wilson clenched his teeth and the pain that suddenly crossed him made him try to desperately wipe out all of his thoughts, before he just falls in House's arms once more and wakes him up again.

* * *

**Note:** The meaning of the word "Freund", in German, can be "friend" as well as "boyfriend" or "lover"


	2. Chapter 2

House lost track of the time after his mind slipped into unconsciousness inside that cold tent, with Wilson softly caressing his face. The hours that followed that bright point in time could easily be defined as the worst of his life. Everything became a blurred memory of unforgivable pain, and he lost count of how many times he wished to be dead already. Some hours after the last shot of morphine, House woke up with his own groans of pain, and every single moment after that was hell until it was too much for him to bear, and he passed out, the first of uncountable times. He could feel Wilson's hand on his own, until he couldn't anymore; maybe the doctor had left the tent to keep his sanity far from that disturbing scene. But then, all of a sudden, he was being carried by faceless men, strangers in uniforms. His heart seemed to try to leave his chest, beating impossibly fast out of fear and irrational panic, and he hyperventilated for some moments before being sucked into darkness again. Voices surrounded him, but he couldn't understand their words. "Is he dead?" "Not yet." "...wounded leg..." "...may have hit the bone...". The putrid smell of rotten flesh invaded his nostrils, and he opened his eyes and tried to get up to check that it wasn't his leg, but strong arms held him in place, and he gave in to the chloroform taking over his lungs. When he finally opens his eyes, a bit dizzy but wide awake, there's a blanket covering his legs, and he doesn't have the heart to check if his leg was still there. Slowly, he stretches his arm until his hand touches his bandaged wound. His heart lightens a bit, and he dares to have hope. The unfamiliar ceiling greets him, and he asks himself if Wilson is near him, not having the courage to look around and find out that he was alone in every possible way.

The world itself, however, was twisted in Wilson's perception, too - mainly for the unmerciful lack of sleep. The screams were everywhere, even though they were involved by such a deep silence it could be frightening. That much silence in a place destined to the sick and wounded sounded like death, and every time Wilson blinked and remained close-eyed for more than five seconds, the smell of blood came up to his nostrils and the screams howled inside his skull, like he was in the middle of a campaign hospital, in the front, when it wasn't. They've won that battle, it was said, but the meaning was miles away for Wilson. The injured were not that many and he could afford some sleep, but the nightmares would be ready to claim war inside a place Wilson couldn't defend.

There he was, then; sitting on a chair, leaning his head on the only wall they had there, while surrounded by thin white sheets and waiting by the bed for House to wake up and end his madness. At some point, he thought he'd heard something - a grunt, a groan, something. Even though it wasn't the first time in those hours, he wouldn't give up trying "House?" he leaned on his knees and forced himself to get up. "Are you awake?"

"Wilson." his voice sounds hoarse, and he realizes he can't remember the last time he actually spoke. He clears his throat. "What... What day is it?" There's a fog in his mind, and he asks himself if he's on morphine again, the characteristic numbness on his limbs. House rubs his eyes with his hand, and it seems it had become a part of his natural traits, to clear his eyes trying to clear his mind. 'Another battle wound', he thinks, the voice in his head sounding sarcastic and bitter.

Wilson approaches the bed and leans his hands on the mattress, smiling. He wanted to place them on House, but something stopped him; it could have been the place they were in, the fear that everything was just some morphine delusion for House, something like that. Wilson couldn't tell; he was really too tired to do so. It felt like there was sand inside his eyelashes and his eye rings were deep and dark. But the image of his lieutenant was quite worse; worse, but he could tell it wasn't too worse. They were both exhausted, but they'd survive. So, despite all that, the dizziness, the weariness, the smile he gave was solid and strong, warming himself. "It's been two days since we left the woods. The third is beginning, actually."

"Three days..." The hours of excruciating pain were part of the past now, and though they had looked endless, it seemed to House that he had been sleeping forever, with his memories of the past days blurred and incomplete. Wilson looked completely drained of all energy, and he felt his heart sting with some nameless feeling, a mix of genuine compassion and selfish gratitude "And haven't you slept ever since?"

The remembrance of the sensation of that now worn out body so close to his own comes alive into his mind, and he asks himself if it had actually happened or if it was just a fantastic creation of his desperation. After all, it was very human to hold onto something dear to overcome suffering, and it would be understandable... though disappointing.

"I have slept, don't worry" he lies "It's just hard to get some rest here." He says within a chuckle. With his knuckles, he touches House's arm. "And how are you feeling?" lets his fingertips touch the skin, hesitantly.

House shivers slightly, as if he had just touched a cold surface accidentally - but Wilson's fingers are warm, so warm they could have left a burn. "I'm feeling... as if I had been hit by a tank." He chuckles weakly "And a bit dazed too. More than a bit actually." He frowns vaguely, observing the dark shades on Wilson's eyes, and his already pale complexion looking ivory. "...Wilson, lying is stupidity when it's written 'exhausted' all over your face."

Wilson sighs heavily. "It's nothing. It's just..." after some seconds staring at House, he swallows hard, then walks to the nightstand. "It's been some tough couple of days, hun?" he says while opening the drawer and taking the aid kid out of it. His voice is actually filled with some strong sorrow. "You know this better than I do. Besides? I'm a doctor, I didn't use to sleep even when I was back in college." when he stands back by the bed, he tries to fondly smile, but it comes out as a incoherent smirk. "Would you let me take a look at your leg?" he holds the blankets.

The unnamed feeling takes over his heart, and it's like it have always been there. But suddenly, House feels afraid to look at his own leg. Afraid of what was waiting for him under that blanket. After all, it was something he would carry for his whole life. "Yes... Please." inhales so deeply he could almost pass out with that amount of air inside his lungs. "What... What do you say about it? How bad was the wound?"

"You will walk." Wilson answers, a little too quickly, and pulls the blanket to the side. It's not something he could ensure, and he knew it was meaningless to lie to House. "You know we can't be completely sure of anything, but I have no reason to believe otherwise. There is no sign of gangrene or any infection." there was a 'but' waiting to be said; however, Wilson just mutes and proceeds to check the response of the muscles and the state around the wound.

House tries to sit to be able to take a look, but the numbness on his body makes him give up. "Am I on morphine again? I'm feeling all dizzy and drowsy." He frowns slightly, feeling there is something weird in the whole situation. Wilson was too concentrated on checking his leg, and avoiding his gaze. Instead of asking directly, he decides to try a subtler way "Have you seen the surgery?" he sounds just barely interested, as if he didn't understand completely what was happening.

"Yes, you are sort of doped." Wilson covers House's leg again, picking and shaking a thermometer, to lower the mercury level "And yes, I was here. They say you shouldn't be involved when you are too emotionally compromised, but I did it anyway." he holds House's arm and lifts it, to place the glass stick under his armpit. "It's not like they have plenty of doctors available here."

"And was it too hard to remove the bullet?" His eyes searches for uncommon signs on Wilson's face,trying to find the answers still hidden behind those warm brown eyes. Those words, 'too emotionally compromised', caught his attention, but the way they were said was too vague and impersonal, and it could mean anything.

"Yes. There was a small splinter in your bone. Not enough to break it, though." Wilson sighed what could be a laugh, and, since none if it was even near to funny, it led to how confused the doctor was. Putting the stethoscope around the neck, he looked at the blue eyes. "You know what will happen now, House. You have always been such a great commander for the troops here. It won't be forgotten." You've always been so great for me here.', he thought, swallowing hard, not realizing he had held House's arm again "But you are alive. And you will walk." He puts the stethoscope in his ears and listens to House's chest. "That's the best I could ever ask." He leans throat and corrects "We could." Sighing, he shakes his head slowly and corrects again. "That I could ask."

A little bent over House and closer, he whispers, breathing heavily, forgetting for some seconds what he was supposed to do.

House is sure Wilson can hear his heart beating a bit faster when he slowly moves his hand to rest it over Wilson's,as if it is the very first time. "Thanks, Wilson." his voice is low, barely audible "Thanks for everything. I'll miss you. You've been a great companion." smiles weakly "You almost make me wish I could stay."

House could already feel the weight of waiting and fearing the war would take Wilson mercilessly. He would be back to a life of comfort and peace, while his dearest friend would stay there, living between mud and blood, bombs and screams. It didn't seem fair. If places could be exchanged... But there was only three ways for an honored soldier to go home: dead, injured or if the war was over. So he'd wait and hope for the best. As Wilson had said, he was alive. All the possibilities were still available for him. 'And when we meet again we'll sort everything out. Time will be ours to savor.'

In the doctor's ears, House's heart was beating loud, and his words scratched and reverberated in between shorter breaths. So, though Wilson was silent, there was a military marching band inside his skull, playing such a sad song that no actual music could reach so far. Maybe the screams in the front, raised to one improbable harmonic tone, could match its pain; but only House's eyes by now could match its beauty. Wilson held House's hand back, and tightened the grip as if he could wring it like his heart was feeling right now - then he stopped, because if he was really able to do so, he'd break every single bone in House's hand. The rhythm inside his ears turned louder and faster, and Wilson was pretty sure his own heartbeats were trying to accompany the orchestra. "You remember it, don't you?" he finally whispers, voiceless.

"At first I thought it had been just a vivid dream. But it was just too good to be just a dream, a creation of my mind. Plus, I never remember my dreams. So... it could only be true. Just reality becoming surreal." His eyes never leaving Wilson's, his thumb gently stroking the skin covering the hand of the doctor. "And now you just have confirmed." Every movement and every word coming from House's mouth has that veil of bittersweetness, peace and happiness blending with fear and sorrow. "I just don't know yet if all these memories will make me feel better while you're away or if they will make me miss you even more. Probably both."

Wilson knew House probably couldn't have forgotten, but he could surely have pretended to, and he didn't. The invisible wound opened again in his own chest, and the warmness around his heart could as well be its hemorrhage. The heartbeats were so loud he took the stethoscope out - in the next second, he regretted it. Hearing the sounds of the hospital, such as the movement of soldiers and nurses outside filled his throat with a doleful perception of reality. "The next truck will come next week. I'm not sure you will walk properly until there, but we'll go back to the headquarters for a while. I'll be with you, for now, for you, if you need me or want me to." Missing those heartbeats, he places his other hand in House's chest. "Actually, I... I don't intend to leave your side for as long as I can." the sour chuckle hiccoughs in his lungs and he smiles as much as he is able to. He wouldn't ever seem so fragile as he felt, but those hushed words were tearing too many walls down for some structure to uphold. He needed to hold on, and he would. Mainly because he was happy, that underhand, undue feeling. He was, for what he felt was the best happiness one can have while the world is killing itself on the outside.

House mirrors the doctor's smile, with eyes full of longing. "As long as you can sounds good." He couldn't say aloud the terrifying thoughts crossing his mind against his will, all of them involving the death of the one who had become so dear and close to him. It was better to pretend the world wasn't tumbling down above them and enjoy every moment to the fullest. To keep thousands of frames of Wilson's face in his mind. To record carefully each sigh, each whisper, each laugh and word with the highest fidelity possible in every cell of his brain. To never let the marks left by those gentle hands on his skin fade away. "I want you near." the words are said under his breath "I need you near." the will to touch those lips again, with his fingertips, with his own lips, was trying to take over him, but sadly, it couldn't be. Not in that cold place, not when so many people were watching or dying in the rooms silently, alone. "Now. Before." Hands are clasped together as if they were one entity, heat flowing through them just as before inside that tent, in the middle of nowhere. "For as long as I live."

It sounds a bit pathetic to his own ears, a bit artificial. Too romantic perhaps, too Sturm und Drang. But it was the best he could do. Unspoken words hurt more than bullets and knives, and he couldn't let them have reasons to torture him. Not when so many precious things were in so much danger.

The first thought of Wilson in between that piercing words were 'The last one I can't promise'. But what was it for, now? Again, what help was the outside truth for them, when they could take those white sheets as the fortress of their particular dream? All he did was looking around carefully, trying to define silhouettes or anything unreasonably dangerous for what he was about to do. His own pulse pounds even louder inside the ears than when he was hearing House's; as if the stethoscope was placed right on the muscles of his own heart. He'd lose it. He'd lose it soon, so he couldn't lose it while he had it. In a sudden movement, he leans both hands on the mattress and bends a little more, finding House's lips with his. For one or two seconds, only, and he breaks it, swallowing hard and straightening his spine, dizzy on how sleepless he was, how reckless he felt and how delicious that sort of nervousness could be, that vicious, that maddening.

It was merely a press of lips to lips - and still, House felt adrenaline being shot straight to his heart, as if he had never taken any morphine. He wanted more, but he knew they should be careful. The recklessness in that act showed how Wilson needed to sleep and eat properly, to rest his brain and body. House fondles the doctor's face lovingly. "Mein Gott, you're mad." He smirks "I like that. But I really think you should try to get some sleep, mein lieber Freund." 'How I wished you could sleep here, by my side, taking away the cold and the pain.', he thinks, but even in his mind the words sound absurd. They don't have any excuse there, and there was no use in wishing impossible things. Nevertheless, he sighs softly, the smirk turning into a gentle smile.

Wilson closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Entschuldigung." he breathes heavily, and repeats. "I am sorry. I won't risk it again, I promise. I just couldn't miss it now. It feels... surreal." Wilson hears his own voice and, in that moment, he becomes fully aware of how much that sounded like the speech of one beginning to be delusional by the lack of sleep. All he had thought, that amount of things and metaphors about reality and dreams, seemed a product of a restless mind in the edge of crazy. Blinking heavily, he walks to the chair he'd spent the most of the night on "We don't have... enough beds here. I'll have to wait for the next shift" he drags the chair to the side of the bed. With a smile, he sits and crosses his arms on the mattress, beside House's waist. "You can tell people I just happened to fall asleep here." He leans head on the back of his own fists, "What a lousy doctor."

House's lips twist into a fond smile "All I see is a great man distressed by the weight of too many worries." House moves his hand to Wilson's hair, and it feels like it belongs there somehow. Just a minor sign of his affection that was meant to make the doctor fall asleep more easily, to calm him down; but it ended up soothing himself as well. "Just sleep and don't worry about anything."

For Wilson, the feeling was overwhelming, and the caressing was slowly removing everything cruel and sad in the situation and replacing it with a strong, relaxing sensation, putting in his limbs and mind the heaviness that once was inside this shoulders and heart. "If that's a characteristic of a lieutenant I don't know" he sighed deeply "but you really make things feel just alright when everything screams it's not. I convince myself it's safe even when the world is raging." the last words turn mumbled, as he was sinking into the sweetest unconsciousness. House watches as the doctor fall asleep fastly, his words floating on the air around them, causing weird sensations on his own skin, not unpleasant at all.


	3. Chapter 3

In the first horn, Wilson felt like waking up. Again. He'd waken up several times within the morning inside the sheets to that cold evening in the train station, even though, in that moment, it felt like a blink. It felt like a heartbeat, even though his pulse raced too many times in those last two weeks. Not now. Now his heart beats slowly, each strong pound heavier than the other. His steps were quick so far, but not even that made his pulse rise. His body didn't want to. It wanted to fall asleep again, inside particular arms, to dream of a world where beautiful things don't need to end. Instead, he had the rusty sunrays of the twilight reflecting in the railway and the engines chugging louder. He swallowed hard, painfully, as his lips turned into a line. His heart lost balance once again when he saw the man leaning on a cane, the suitcase by his foot. It tightened even more in his chest, and, inside his rib cage, the sun had already set down. Five steps ahead of House, afraid to give one more step, Wilson froze, holding his breath.

House's eyes were clouded and there was no light in them while the night began to fall. The air is cold, and his own heart feels almost frozen. He had to keep a steady face. The sadness feels like a part of him now, and he can't allow himself to think about the last two weeks. But Wilson is there, five steps from him, and it's impossible not to remember of hands touching slightly, warm smiles, quick kisses when nobody was there to see. It was hard enough to walk with the permanently injured leg, but it's nearly impossible now with the weight of losing something so dear to him.

Before the war, he could dare to hope for the best - but nothing will ever be the same for Gregory House. He carries too many scars, visible or not, to just risk getting more out of foolish hopes. Finding love among so much pain and suffering had saved his sanity, but he was bitter than before anyway. And when he gets home, his eyes will be nearly petrified. Maybe it was only the farewell to be said making his vision of the future look blurred and grey. But how can he expect something more than a lonely and tasteless life when he's leaving the one he needs the most there, to the enemies and bombshells? House is returning to a loveless home, and he doesn't expect to find comfort there. He feels the cold spreading through his bloodstream, and he knows it would be like that until Wilson come back to his arms. If he ever comes back.

Wilson stumbles one step in House's direction, as if he had never learned in the Army how to march. He always knew it would be this way; the battles, giving his life to Medicine, trying to save as many soldiers as he could. Now, how ironically metaphorical would it sound? The way he joined the war to try to save one life among dozens of deaths sounded a lot like himself; trying to save his own heart by clinging to the memories while fighting an already lost battle. One more step ahead, feeling himself filled with all those said unnatural, sick, disturbed wills and behavior, yet the most beautiful flower to ever bloom, seed between the rotting corpses in the trenches.

He knew it all from the start, and yet being aware didn't help him from falling. From falling in love, from falling apart.

"So..." his voice set itself free when they were two steps away from each other. "that's it, then, hm?"

House sighs heavily. "That's it, my dearest fellow." Wilson's eyes seems to mirror his own pain. House wants to wrap his arms around him, to feel the life inside him, to touch, to be part of him, to stay in his place, to stay with him, to take him away. He wasn't sure he could hug the doctor and then let go as if it didn't tear his heart apart. "That's all for now."

"Ja." he tries his best to keep his voice still. There is either nothing to be said at that point, or too much to fit inside the time they had left. He needed to hold on to every second, and it was like holding on to the shine of the day - both were ethereal and doomed to end, to fade, into black. "Do you" his voice falters and he cleans his throat "have any plans for when you get there?" a sketch of a smile trembles weakly in the corner of his mouth, and the attempt of being casual twists its sound. He'd fall on his knees if he could. In a perfect world, he'd hold his hand and they'd run away, and there would be nothing wrong in doing it. But the world was so imperfect House couldn't even run anymore, and everything about the mere idea of it would be considered wrong.

Another train had arrived, its horns, whistles and chugging coming in the way of an answer, and Wilson frowns, at the last horizontal sunrays and at the guilt and sorrow about to burden him for life.

In response, House chuckles bitterly. What plans could he have when it seems there's no hope left? But it soon becomes a sad, resigned smile. There wasn't any need for hurting Wilson even more.

When it seems the world is falling down upon our shoulders and all hope is gone, we tend to look at the sky above us for some unknown reason, as if a solution for our problems could fall from it anytime. But House just needed to look at Wilson. He had to believe everything would go fine, otherwise he'd just break down there, on that cold train station that has already seen too many sad departures. "I don't have any immediate plans. But I do have some plans for... later." his voice sounds muffled, as if coming from a deep well. He clears his throat and tries to sound animated "You must come and visit me in Wien as soon as possible. There's a Kaffeehaüss on Philharmonikerstrasse where they bake the best Sacher torte I've ever had. They play good music there too." his smile becomes a bit wider as his heart warms at the thought "I'd appreciate to have your company there."

"It seems quite a good idea." This time, he is able to smile; sadly, but still. It seemed such a good idea it was utopic. "Wien must be really beautiful. I have only heard of." he glances to the side for a second. Was it the train to Vienna that one coming from the downpour? From the downpour, right through his chest, perhaps. The blue shine of House's eyes was better than the topaz of the railways, and he nodded. "You shouldn't have given me your address. I won't just visit you later, I'll write you ceaselessly. You'll be best friends with the postman by the end of the war." he chuckles weakly. "Or you won't bear him anymore."

"I'll wait for your letters anxiously." Before the bombs, before the war, before the bullets and blood amidst mud and snow, House had just wandered through the streets, feeling a deep longing for something nameless. Something he couldn't find in the music his fingers played intensely in his long nights, when the keyboard ended up too wet out of all the liquors Lisa hated so much. Something he couldn't find in any substance his peers appreciated immensely, legal or illegal. The war changed many things indeed. He felt older than he was, wiser, colder, sharper. It was simple: follow the rules. Obey your superiors. Command the young soldiers firmly but never with cruelty. Take care of your comrades and they will repay the favor. And House have done it all. At some point, he could even say life was easier that way.

Later, he would write in a tiny notebook he kept in his pocket: 'I didn't have to decide anything for myself. It was all for the others. It's strange, to become less selfish and self-conscious when you're in great danger. But now it's all about me again... The burden is heavier than before, but I'm also stronger than before. I don't know what it means. I don't know what to expect. I just know what I want desperately, and it's the end of this terrible war and a reality where I can love and be loved without limits. I also know I'm asking for too much. But I can't help it; not after leaving my heart kilometers away from here, between danger and despair.'

In the moment, his eyes tried to capture the image of a tired doctor with gentle hands and a broken smile. "I'll wait for you, anxiously." his voice, barely a whisper, doesn't seen to come from his mouth, but from a homeless child's, scared and helpless.

"Now I have something to go back to." The breeze was cold, just not as cold as his future seemed to be. In that future, he'd desperately hope for a wind of change, but all the words he'd write and all the letters he'd never send will be hovering inside a dead air, inside that blood-smelling coldness. The station was noisy, and in each breath he wanted harder to scream for it all to hush. Hush, you all, for respect. A one-minute silence, for what war killed besides lives. The train was getting nearer, and that future too. He could smile wider, for all the lights of Vienna that House was about to come back to, but he couldn't. All he knew was that House would stand life with a permanently injured leg, and he'd stand war with a permanently injured heart. He'd stand there, not only feeling, but being, the things he'd miss. Not only missing, but craving the memories he had. Not only remembering, but breathing the singular treasure he cherished. "I have someone to go back to." His lips trembled in between the feeble smile and he felt a sting like a chisel carving his heart into something more and more capable of being engraved; that was - he knew in that moment - the true meaning of being strong.

'I have someone to go back to.' Those words echoed inside his head, and it was too much. Everything was too much, and he was overwhelmed by the station noises, by the large amount of people that were about to embark in that same train, but most of all - overwhelmed by that terrifying feeling possessing his heart, a sick sure that it was the end of all things bright and beautiful, the end of himself, and the fear that Wilson was just about to die.

That two steps separating them, that void filled with so much tension and forces of attraction, felt like an entire abyss. Leaning on that stupidly necessary cane, he crossed that abyss, maybe hoping he would fall and be engulfed by darkness, saving him from all the suffering. He approaches Wilson as if the doctor were his only hope for salvation and hugs him the most tightly he is able to, letting the cane fall on the floor with a loud, hurtling sound.

It was maybe a way of killing James himself, suffocating him to death with that devastating feeling that had already crushed all of his own bones and tore his skin apart. Maybe murdering the one he loved were better than leaving him to die among strangers who would leave his body to rot in the mud as if it didn't contained the most magnificent soul that ever came to that filthy, unfair world. As his arms held the doctor's body so close to his own, he had to breathe deeply in order not to cry in front of Wilson. He had to look strong and unbreakable to his beloved friend, protecting him from the burden of worrying about his shattered self. His feelings for the man into his arms were like a magnifying glass, making everything bigger, stronger, more dangerous, more precious, more everything, more, more and more.

He couldn't tell whether the terror or the surrealism of that fireproof dream would prove to be the right sentence - he couldn't tell if he should dare to have faith in any force ruling the universe and trust his other half would come back to his arms and complete him – but, in fact, he couldn't even think. He couldn't even speak. His train would depart to his homeland, where the edelweiss looked like tiny pieces of cotton fallen on the grass, but he would return not only crippled - he would return completely colorblind. Nothing could ever be the same after that. "James... Mein lieber James..." whispering those words were the only thing he could. He didn't want to let go, but sooner rather than later, he would have to. He wasn't ready. He would never be ready. But it didn't change anything. Soon, it would be just a foggy memory he'd try to keep forever.

Was House aware that he was the one holding that chisel now, and that perhaps he had just hit too hard? Wilson was himself a splinter, and he couldn't dare to loose the embrace, for he felt like the only thing keeping him in one piece now was those arms. His throat ached like his windpipe was being cut open, and, though he could painfully swallow the hiccoughs not to let himself burst into a childish crying, his sight was helplessly blurring, the despicable moisture unavoidably taking his eyelids.

Two men in uniforms bearing two broken - two shattered hearts. Two lives among too many, among the maps and battle plans. One more departure, who'd even care? Why would it even matter, in politics, in history, in between losing and winning, one more bullet piercing skin and muscles, one more morphine shot, one more forbidden kiss, one more hopeless love? "Can I ask you something, Greg?"

The train stopped, braking in a metallic sound, and both the smoke taking the cold air and the strength of House's arms pressing his ribcage made Wilson cough once; when he breathed in again, the air came in wet.

One more farewell, and people would keep on passing by. One more no more, and no one would ever even know.

"Please, be as happy as the world lets you. But, please..." as he shuts his eyes, one tear falls on House's shoulder. "Don't... don't forget me. Don't forget us, because I never will."

House chuckles weakly, as if coughing, and it sounds so fake he feels like punching himself "You say it as if there was any chance of happening." He sighs and loosens the embrace slowly, hesitating to let go. "If I ever forget you, I might as well forget everything else, my name, my language, how to walk."

He is as gentle as he can, but pushing Wilson away from him, even if delicately, feels like a crime. When he stares into that warm wide eyes, they're slightly wet, and he knows his own eyes must be looking that way too. "I'll miss you terribly. And what I said, I mean it: I'll wait for you... As long as necessary." Because even if Wilson never went back to him, for whatever reason, his heart wouldn't just move on. He would live with the ghost of that love until his last breath. House knew he could convince himself it was just a minor infatuation, a slip during hard times. But that would be killing all the good in him. That would be destroying his own heart. And in the end of that road of lies and fake smiles, only madness would wait for him. He didn't want to forget Wilson, even if it meant his nights would feel colder and his life meaningless.

Every second without the warmth against his body seemed to freeze Wilson a little more. He was stone cold until he became a statue, and his heart did not seem to be made of muscles and blood anymore. 'All passengers boarding train to Vienna', and he put his shoulders back, straightening his posture, militarily. "Guess it's time." he nodded, pressing his lips.

It wasn't his first loss, and it wouldn't be the last. But in that moment, all that existed was the abyss cracking in between them, to never be crossed again. The last time they touched seemed too much like the last time they would ever do so, and even when it was yet warm against their skins, it already seemed to be ages ago. One can either ask for having everything or having forever - and he had everything. The everything he had was damaged and wounded, in between blood and bombs, but it was in between madness that he acknowledged the strongest reality, one a civilian won't ever know. "I'll help you with your luggage" Clenching his teeth, he picked House's cane and suitcase from the floor. He would fight, for he was a soldier. He would mend, for he was a doctor. And, in that moment, those two meanings were to himself more than to the world. Perhaps the fight will be lost, no survivors. Perhaps the poorly sutured seams will rupture or slowly unravel. For now, passengers were entraining, the night was almost surpassing all the lights, and he handed House the cane. Wilson could be the statue he felt he was, and he could look as steady as he wished he were, if it weren't for the aspen, shivery breath he still had truncating out of his lungs, through the slits of his riven self.

House nodded once, recomposing himself, forcing his mind to become concentrated on the practical matters, which in that moment involved getting in the train. One step at a time. One day at a time. He had to be able to do it. After all, things would never be easy for them. They were only humans, cursed with life, blessed with love. Step by step, he approached the train, and his eyes were attentive to all details - the lights of the station reflecting on every surface, the smoke coming from the noisy locomotive, the cold sudden wind playing with the end of his coat. He watched Wilson handing his belongings to the baggage handler, and it all looked like some vivid dream - he could feel, but not quite; he was there, but not entirely.

"Here we bid farewell, Wilson." He straightens his posture, as many times beforeand his voice is somehow filled with a touch of solemnity. "It was an honor to fight by your side, and I'll be eternally grateful for your efforts on keeping me alive and well, and for that I'll owe you forever."

The ultimacy of the moment made Wilson's eyes desperately try to capture that scene; to see harder, if he could, so hard it would be printed inside his brain "I am the one who owes you, House. You were and you shall always be the best Kommander an army could have, the wittiest and the wisest, besides everything, and you were not only a loyal Kamerad, you were..." he frowns as if there was light in the station, but there wasn't even light inside his eyes anymore. The night would take it away; it would take Gregory House away, too. Alive, though. The luck his sanity would hold on to from now on. "Mein Freund. The greatest I could find. And I hope there come a time where the fight will cease and... and I can have a Sacher torte."

He smiles. He just smiles, and it's pure. Genuine. The resignation burned cold like the Russian night. The early night bled warm like the shot wound. The scene faded to white like the hospital sheets, and he was too tired again. He smiles - he smiles as it's the only thing left to do. "Auf Wiedersehen, mein Leutnant." his face steadies again, slowly. Auf Wiedersehen, for he couldn't bear to say Lebewohl, and even less to believe in it.

He steps back carefully and tries not to blink too hard, not to breathe too heavy, not to even glimpse to the side; he wanted the last moment to be the sharpest and most precise form to ever be carved in his heart, for as much time as his mind would be able to save. In a sudden, steady gesture, his hand goes up to his own forehead, and he augustly salutes his superior under the coldest winds and the incoming, never-ending, darkness.

"Auf Wiedersehen, mein wertvoll Freund." He holds the cane with his other hand to be able to salute back, as respectful as he can. The train is ready to leave the station, and House looks one last time at Wilson, that brave and majestic human being, who stood there as if he were made of steel instead of flesh and bone. He would always remember of him that way: standing amidst the smoke and the cold weak light, with a thousand words in his eyes and wearing his heart on the sleeve without any great gesture, any dramatic demonstration of love and devotion. A strong man, who would never surrender to despair or suffering, but still full of kindness and wisdom. In the last fraction of time, House felt like crying, laughing, running back to Wilson's arms, forgetting about everything. Instead, he bows his head slightly, with the shadow of a smile in the corner of his mouth and the opaque veil of sadness in his eyes, and embarks on the train. Even though he wanted to look back and see Wilson one more time, he wouldn't do it; it had been hard enough leaving him.

He had learnt to deal with coldness and harshness since childhood. He had matured fast and positioned strategic shields on his chest to protect his heart in every way possible. Every depreciating word, every censure, he had heard it with an impassive face or even a sarcastic smile He was used to being put aside and having suspicious looks at him always waiting for his next act of madness and cruelty. In the army he had found respect. In Wilson, he had found adoration, love. And that was something he would never get used to. Inside the train, it feels like a dream again, like being immersed in a strange atmosphere. He takes a sit, holding his pulse loosely, trying to discover once and for all if it was real. But either his heart couldn't be a measure of anything ever again or his fingers were just too numb to feel the blood pulsing through the veins.

With a sigh, he closes his eyes, while a sensation similar to fever and sickness takes hold of him. It was ended. It was only beginning.

As the engine started to work, Wilson stayed there. His limbs were too heavy for him to believe he could walk; on the other side, his skin was too light, too otherworldly, unable to contain him. As the locomotive began to move, Wilson stayed there - in every way, Wilson stayed there. He was dazed, and for the way his sight was blurred, it could mean that he was in tears again. What a shame if he were; men shouldn't cry. Men shouldn't kiss other men, as well. Men shouldn't shoot other men, but that, they thought, that one was just fine. But there was no wetness dripping along Wilson's face, and he shut his dry eyes in order to switch the image of the train leaving for something he'd like better. A blue sky containing some addicting hope. He'd picture anything, either imaginary or a real memory, and he swallowed hard as how both of these were destined to turn into the very same thing inside his wrecked mind. All would become shapeless forms amid too many screams and the echoes of bombs in between all the war hallucinations.

He'd write all the letters telling stories with nameless characters, and he'd wake up every day waiting for the ceasefire, for the day when they'd stop strafing his hope and they'd let it walk free, to, bloody and limping, try to be real. Through that time in war, and mostly in that farewell, he doubted God a thousand times and questioned fiercely His mercy; but now, Wilson would beg for forgiveness to have His bless again, if it meant to have something to hold on to, anything at all. However, no; Wilson wouldn't be that coward. God had already spared House, wasn't it merciful enough? How many times would he just keep on mourning his own utopia? With what was left of his faith, still closed-eyed, he asked for some forgiveness, but sighed in contempt, for his faith was too weak, and for he was just too fragile for a soldier. Withal, no self-pity would mend anything, and no act of God would change the world entirely so it would fit into his will.

Then, he gave his back. And he gave his first step. Another one came, until somehow he was going away. Walking among all the civilians and their own stories, he was just another turned page. His heart was nothing but a blood pump, and he was nothing but a doctor with a duty. The further he walked inside his future, the less material everything touchable seemed to be. No one actually existed; all the people passing by were ghosts, and he was nothing but memories and train smoke. But if there was a name worth the fight, and if there was a past worth the hope, Wilson had it with him, like a dear letter, smelling of perfume, carefully held against his chest. And that was just the best he could trust himself. Everything else belonged to God and to the fate He'd write.

It was ended. It was only the beggining.


End file.
